


Station to Station

by Asher_Ephraim



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Spelling & Grammar, Cocaine, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Prompt Fill, Recreational Drug Use, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-23 23:54:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14343618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asher_Ephraim/pseuds/Asher_Ephraim
Summary: "It's not the side effects of the cocaine/I'm thinking that it must be love." --David Bowie, Station to StationPrompt fill from Kylux Cantina's Addiction Week.





	Station to Station

Rubbing his nose with the back of his hand, he admits that he should cut back. Ideally, of course, he ought to quit entirely. But he’s too much of a realist to imagine that’ll be happening any time soon.  
         But he does resolve to take the day off tomorrow. It’s a Sunday, after all, and nothing will need to be accomplished. No conversations, no tidying, no errands. He can afford to be tired and lazy for an entire twenty four hour span every once in a while.  
         As for now, though, he’s far from turning in for the night. It’s 11:15 and he already has two lines under his belt—plus most of a gram in the inner front pocket of his slim jeans. Bed is a long way off.  
         His phone buzzes.

> _KR: u coming out to ww 2nite?_  
>  _AH: It’s spelled ‘tonight’, but yes._  
>  _KR: k already there c u soon I hope_

         Hux’s pulse surges in what he tells himself is a delayed effect of the coke. It isn’t. Kylo does this to him, but he still hasn’t found a satisfactory explanation for it.  
         Because Kylo isn’t his type. He’s too tall to lean down and kiss, too muscular to shove against a wall. His ears and hands are too big not to lend him an awkward look. His dick requires too much effort to take without pain. His texting is atrocious. He doesn’t even have a decent job—he’s a fucking painter, for Christ’s sake.  
         But still.  
         Hux has no idea what they’re doing. It isn’t dating. It isn’t just hooking up. He’d call them friends with benefits, except he isn’t sure whether they’re friends—and he certainly feels too old for such an arrangement. He’s thirty; he should have more figured out by now.  
         Admittedly his career has gotten in the way. Although corporate law isn’t exactly a calling for him, he is quite adept at it and doesn’t half-ass anything. Luckily he’s never required more than four hours of sleep per night, because the firm demands more of his time than is reasonable or healthy. And good thing Hux doesn’t demand reason or health in his own life, either.  
         The blow had started in undergrad, just a weekend thing for the parties he’d never felt comfortable at when sober or even drunk. Then the hobby blossomed into a habit during law school, when his studies turned from pleasantly challenging to an all-out assault on his waking life. Plus he’d had to clerk throughout the semesters to pay for room and board, because unlike many of his classmates at Harvard Law he wasn’t a trust-fund baby.  
         He could have been. _Ought_ to have been. Lord knows his father had the money. But financial security was for legitimate children, not offspring of a celebrated criminal defence attorney and his barely-legal paralegal. He sighs, pushing back thoughts of the privilege he nearly had. Which is easier at the moment because cocaine flips a switch in his brain from miserably bitter to a shade above socially competent. It’s done wonders for his career. Personally, of course, it’s made things difficult on more than one occasion.  
         For example, it’s let him put up with Kylo Ren far longer than he otherwise would have done. He throws his coat on, checks his pocket once again to ensure the blow is still there (it is), and heads out to the bar.

 

Five hours later, Hux is regaining his breath in Kylo’s bed. It’s tucked away behind a privacy screen in the studio apartment, a space crowded with half-finished canvasses, binders of reference photos (unnecessary in the internet age, but Hux appreciates Kylo’s analogue style), and a tiny cat that manages to be everywhere you don’t want her to be. Still. It’s oddly comfortable here.  
         Hux turns over onto his side to survey Kylo’s face. The younger man’s hair is disheveled, covering one eye fully and criss-crossing his nose in a way that must tickle unbearably. Kylo doesn’t seem to mind. His gaze is sleepy and a slow smile plays across his lips.  
          _Fuck, you’re perfect,_ he thinks without meaning it.  
         Then the panic sets in. He sits bolt upright, causing Kylo to stir from his post-coital laziness.  
         “What is it?” Kylo asks, voice groggy with exhaustion.  
         Hux shakes his head, covers his mouth with one cupped hand as though fighting off a wave of nausea. But it’s something much worse.  
         It’s love.


End file.
